‘You best see that the mayor reads this as soon as possible,’ he announced, then added, ‘I daresay it’ll all be in the next edition of the Mercury.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
The snow came and went before Christmas, leaving the ground muddy, the grass a sharp green against the brown of the fields and bare trees. He made his way down Marsh Lane towards the Parish Church, picking his way carefully between the puddles. Lucy had sponged his good suit and breeches clean, his stock was bright white, his hair wetted down and combed.
Emily and Rob walked arm in arm behind him, Lucy trailing after in a thick shawl, wearing the blue mantua that Mary had loved so much. She and Emily had altered it to fit, working long evenings with awkward, fumbling fingers. Whenever he saw it a stab of pain pierced his heart. But he’d said nothing; Lucy was so proud of it.
The bell was ringing, drawing in the faithful to celebrate the nativity. But there was no charity in his soul, no love for his fellow man, no sense of the season. He went because it was expected of him, no more, no less.
The mayor had taken the news about Darden and Howard with bad grace. He summoned the Constable, ranting and shouting and demanding an explanation, accusing him of murder. But Nottingham had been with the treasurer, Joe Buck backed up all Sedgwick said, and Rob’s landlady had seen him enter his rooms in the morning.
He’d let Fenton run on until he had no more to say.
‘You’ve read it. They’ve admitted their guilt,’ the Constable told him. ‘That should be enough for you. For anyone on the Corporation.’
‘Get out, Nottingham.’
He’d won. As soon as word of the confession spread, his position was safe. But he felt no joy in the victory, no success. No one had seen or heard of the men. No bodies had been found. Their disappearance would remain a mystery that would fade. It had already begun to slip from the tongues and minds in the city. He’d spoken no more about it to Rob or the deputy. They’d put it aside; there was enough to keep them all busy with burglaries, a cutpurse causing havoc until they caught him, fights and killings that punctuated the weeks of Advent.
He did his job, then spent his evenings sitting by the fire, lost in thoughts and memories. Sometimes, in the restless dark, he could believe he felt Mary lying beside him, the comfort of her body and gentle breathing, with night for her gown. Then he’d wake and the mist of dreams would clear.
He felt apart from the world, as if it couldn’t quite touch him any more, cut off by the sorrow that surrounded him. He said less and kept his thoughts inside, where they were safe.
They passed under the lych gate. Nottingham turned and said to the others, ‘You go in. I’ll join you shortly.’
He walked over to the graves, Rose and Mary side by side, preparing words for them both in his head.